


Boredom

by starktony (noblydonedonnanoble)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-21
Updated: 2012-11-21
Packaged: 2017-11-19 04:55:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/569343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noblydonedonnanoble/pseuds/starktony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock hasn't gotten a case for a while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boredom

                I never thought I’d say this, but I wish that Sherlock would go back to simply shooting walls when he hasn’t had a case in a while. When he does that, at least his frustration is confined to that small area. Then I can simply avoid that spot until he gets bored of being bored.

                But no. It would be too easy for him to let me have some semblance of peace. Now, he’s taken to storming around the entire flat.

                Sometimes he barges into my room in the middle of the night, swearing that he heard a commotion. Usually the real source of the sound is a squirrel, or a bird flying into my window (and I don’t bother to tell him when it was nothing at all because he wouldn’t believe me anyway). When I tell him this, he insists that all squirrels in our area don’t come out after 8pm, and all the birds with a low enough intelligence level to fly into glass live on the _other_ side of London.

                He’s also begun to circle me while I’m eating dinner in the kitchen, raving about nonsensical things—more nonsensical than usual, I mean. And let me tell you, there isn’t much that’s more disconcerting than Sherlock Holmes circling you while you eat, rambling nonsense the entire time.

                The thing that really does it, though, is when he runs downstairs and bursts in on Mrs. Hudson and her friend having tea. Wielding an ax.

                He claims that he heard a gunshot.

                Really, they had only just seen one on the telly, because Mrs. Hudson thought it would be a good idea to watch a murder mystery.

                So now he’s sulking, because for some reason—that he doesn’t quite understand—Mrs. Hudson is angry. He sits at my desk with his chin on the surface, and his skull is resting on my computer. He gazes at the skull; if the skull had legitimate eyes with which to gaze, it would be gazing back.

                I feel divided on whether I should say something. I don’t like seeing Sherlock unhappy, but at this point there’s very little that I could do to cheer him up.

                Besides murder someone in a fiendish way so that he has to find me, but I don’t think he wants to see his only friend murder someone for the sake of ending his boredom.

                Actually, he might appreciate it, which simply makes it worse.

                “Hey, Sherlock?” I say.

                Testing the waters. Making sure that he remembers how to respond to actual human contact.

                “What _is it_ , John?”

                Yes, apparently he does. Politeness may be lacking, but I rarely expect that when he’s in a _good_ mood, so it would be silly of me to imagine that he might be polite now.

                “Murders happen all the time in London. I’m sure Lestrade will call you with something interesting soon.”

                He looks away from the skull, directly at me. “But you disapprove of me hoping for a murder for the sake of entertainment.”

                I shrug. “Perhaps. But if you’re sitting by your phone, waiting for a call from Lestrade, it means you’re not waking me up at 2am for an animal outside my window.”

                “Some day you’re going to be kidnapped from your bed and I won’t come in to save you. You’ll scream for me and I’ll ignore it.”

                “Right, because then you can look impressive and figure out where they’ve taken me. Of course.”

                Something about my response makes him frown, and he turns to stare at the skull again.

                “Oh Sherlock, you can’t be serious. That was a joke. I was teasing you. At my expense, in fact! What are you pouting for?”

                Mrs. Hudson doesn’t give me enough credit for taking care of Sherlock. Because on occasions like this, when he acts five years old, I most certainly am taking care of him.

                “You suggested that I would allow people to kidnap you for the sake of my own amusement. How is that not at my expense? Please explain. You make me sound like—“

                “A sociopath?” I offer.

                Sherlock frowns again. “But you’re my friend, John. I wouldn’t risk you getting hurt for the sake of a game.”

                “Really?”

                “Of course not. Why would- why are you hugging me, John? Did I say something worth hugging me for? Because if so, I wish to take it back immediately.”

                I pull back and look at him closely. “You’re joking, right? Please tell me that you’re joking.”

                He chuckles. “I find that hugs do cheer me up somewhat. You may continue if you like.”

                “I may continue if I like?” With his reaction, I’m tempted to leave him to his moping. I could always go out, find a nice pub to stay at until he’s gone to bed.

                But then he pulls me back into the hug, clinging to me tightly. “Fine then, if _I_ like,” he declares. “Which I do.”

                “Well, this is better than me murdering someone…” I murmur into his shoulder.

                “John, murdering someone for me isn’t necessary.” I’m about to respond when he pats my head. Pats my head! “I’d know who you killed and where you hid the body as soon as you walked into the flat.”

                Sometimes I wonder if it’s better when Sherlock is moping.

                But I hold him in my arms for a while longer anyway.


End file.
